


Fragmented Souls

by procoffeinating, Queenie_Mab, Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Blood, Character Death, Collaboration, Diary/Journal, Digital Painting, Emotional Manipulation, Gender Dysphoria, Horror, Illustrated, Multi, Murder, Self-Harm, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:17:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procoffeinating/pseuds/procoffeinating, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenie_Mab/pseuds/Queenie_Mab, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of seven fairy tales inspired by and featuring the Horcruxes and characters of Harry Potter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Collection Cover




	2. The Princess and the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius treats Draco like a fairy tale princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Writcraft. Illustrated by KingJulian.

The attic is dank and dark. The room is cramped and the ceilings low enough that I can only just stand without knocking my head on the beams. The bed is a rough amalgamation of bits of wood and dusty velvet which smells like mothballs. 

Mother doesn’t know I’m here, father says. She thinks I’m on an adventure which leaves me with little time for niceties like communicating with family. Father claims she has no idea I’m trapped in the towers of Malfoy Manor. She won’t save me, he assures me. I shouldn’t get any ideas.

I think she knows. I just think she’s spent so long pretending not to see, she’s managed to convince herself she’s blind.

I carve a wand from broken glass and remember how it felt when magic rushed through my veins and whispered Latin could send all the colours of the rainbow shooting from the tip of my wand. I long for the power to cast a simple _Lumos_ or a confident _Alohamora_ but the only time I succeed in doing magic is when I’m fast asleep, dreaming of a different world. I dream of castle spires and the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. I’ve only seen the pictures, but I know I would have loved it all the same.

Sometimes, I tap my wand on the floor. One, two, three. _One, two, three._ I hear footfall beneath me - a pause - and then the footsteps continue. Mother blocks out my attempts at communication by singing the lullaby she used to sing when I was a child. 

I wonder where she thinks the sounds are coming from, when she’s sweeping through the house in layers of crushed velvet and bottle-green satin. Sometimes I want to cry and scream and shout for her - 

_Can you hear me, mother?_

Instead, I tap on the floor in a rhythmic notes and imagine I hear her knocking back. When I investigate too closely however, it’s only the rats and the beating of wings that respond, and, shortly after, mother’s singing starts again.

*

The sun doesn’t rise and set in here as it does in rooms with wide windows and fresh air. Instead I have to lie down on the filthy floor and look for sunlight through the cracks in the rafters. I try to keep a note of every day, but sometimes it feels like I’ve slept for months. I wake, fearful and heaving in lungfuls of musty air, panicking about the small slivers of daylight I might have missed.

I’m not alone. There are portraits with their faces turned against the wall, as if they too have done something wrong. I wonder what crime they committed, to find themselves in here, with me?

Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I think I can hear them laughing.

*

Satan’s Kiss, they call it.

It seems appropriate, somehow. It’s deep burgundy – like the edges of the clouds just after sunset. It slides on my lips and I smack them together and smile in the mirror.

The cracks in the mirror make my face look distorted, and broken. The shadows slide over my skin and contour my cheeks. 

I wipe my lips on the back of my hand, and they leave a line that looks like blood. I pick up a shard of broken glass and follow it path until the blood is real, bright and vibrant. 

The darkness in the room whispers to me, and I think I hear my name.

 _Draco Malfoy_.

The boy who didn’t want to grow up.

The boy who wanted to be a princess.

When I look in the mirror again, I can’t remember how to smile. All I see are lips, parted and breathing in dust. I’m just a face I don’t remember, and a mouth painted sunset-red with shame.

Hush, now.

Father’s coming.

When the nights stretch into morning, I remember the books of my childhood.

I close my eyes until the rich scent of leather fills the room. I rub my fingers together to feel the gilt-edged paper thin pages against my skin. 

My favourites were always the ones about the beautiful princesses. I’d spend hours drinking in the colours of their clothes. I’d brush my fingers on the pages and try to feel the velvet and satin. I studied the corsets, bustles and round curves instead of shape edges.

When I told father I wanted to wear ribbons, he smiled.

“I’ll treat you like a princess,” he said, soft and honeyed. 

I can still hear him laughing as he turned the key in the door.

*

I often think about the story of the princess that slept for a hundred years.

Her husband was King, and he became suspicious of her beauty. He thought she was using magic to make herself more attractive and he took her wand away so she couldn’t do magic anymore. Every day she’d get more beautiful, and he flew into a violent rage – sure someone was helping her do magic even though he forbade it.

One evening when she was sleeping, he put her under a Stasis Charm and locked her in a magical tomb made of glass. He kept her body there for a hundred years, and went to see her every day. He’d call her things like _my beautiful girl_ and told her he loved her the best, even when she was nothing more than glass, and stone. 

She would smile in the pictures, and I’d often wonder what she was dreaming about.

Father always enjoyed that story best.

He likes it when the princess doesn’t get to answer back.

*

Father gave me a crown to wear.

He told me it would remind me of everything I could have been, if I had been a better man.

Sometimes, when I’m sleeping, I hear the promise he made when he came to see if I’d changed my mind.

“Someday if you’re lucky, your prince will come.” 

I don’t think I want any prince my father is minded to send.

Whenever I hear footsteps in the hall my heart stops and my stomach turns.

I know what happens to girls who disobey their fathers.

I’ve read all the stories.

Haven’t you?

*

I realise after another night blurs into morning that I could turn my crown into a key.

It’s the same heavy metal my father uses to open the door. I break it into pieces until my hands are shaking from the effort of tearing something so beautiful apart.

I look at it, twisted metal and tiny diamonds glinting on the floor.

I like it.

It reminds me of myself - all twisted metal and dull pieces that try to keep shining, even when there isn’t any light anymore.

*

I’m not sure how many months it takes to make something that resembles a key.

I’ve seen it so many times around father’s neck, I know every groove and every indentation. I might not have a wand anymore, but some days the magic surges through my fingertips and it’s just enough to help me complete my task. I’ve learned how to cast _Lumos_ without a wand, I’ve discovered that the doors can’t be unlocked with any kind of magic and I’ve learned the curses I need to save myself when freedom finally comes.

I think of overpowering father when he visits, but he’s too careful. He visits me less and less and when he does, he always has his wand outstretched, ready to strike back at the first sign of disobedience.

Mother's stopped singing now. I wonder where she is and why I can only hear one set of footsteps at any given time. Perhaps she's made her escape and left father behind for something infinitely better. I try not to think too much about the fact she's left me behind too, in these dark towers and at the mercy of father's madness.

When I ask father he tells me that she isn't coming back. He says it in the kind of tone that shuts down any attempt at conversation. "You're so like her," he says. He strokes his fingers through my hair and for one moment I think that everything might be okay again after all. Then his face twists and his fingers clip my face as he casts me to one side.

He turns away, his shoulders bent as if he can't bear the sight of me - a broken shell of the daughter he never wanted.

He's careless, turning his back like that. I’ve spent so long telling him I’m a princess, he’s starting to believe it. He thinks I’m the princess from a thousand different stories. He thinks I’ll grow my hair and let it hang from the small attic window, waiting for my prince to come.

He’s wrong.

What a peculiar thing it is, to finally have him look at me like a girl.

*

I keep an eye on the glimmers of sunshine that struggle to break through the rafters, trying to find their way into the dark space.

I’ve made a dress from velvet and rags. It hangs from my frame and the velvet whispers as I walk, its murmurs full of possibility.

When the room is thick black from midnight’s shadows, I take my chance. The key slides into the lock and there’s a satisfying click as I turn it clockwise. 

The heavy door opens with a creak and I step outside. I breathe in air which isn’t dank and stale. My lungs fill with it until my chest burns and my heart beats its eager rhythm.

For the first time in forever I feel _alive_.

*

My father spent my earlier years teaching me the darkest of magic.

He treated my disobedience with an iron fist and locked me up with a tarnished crown.

He gave me velvet rags, the silence of the shadows and an endless night to plot my revenge.

“Wake up,” I tell him. “Who’s the king of the castle?” 

The blood of my father stains my dress, and blooms across the velvet like the first flowers of spring.

When it is done, I use my father’s wand to turn the key back into a crown. 

I sit on my throne and settle it on my head.

Why be a Princess, if you can be a Queen?


	3. The Boy Who Lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Choices made with the best of intentions but lacking true understanding can corrupt the gentlest of natures and turn them into a force that should not exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Mab. Illustrated by KingJulian

*

Gather close, all who can hear my voice; the age of strife is upon us. For we are slaves to an endless cycle and history repeats itself. The cycle will continue until the end of days, long after life on Earth ceases and the seas dry up. Humanity brought this scourge upon itself, created a force of nature that is anything but natural, and it all started with a single choice – one made from the heart rather than the mind. For _I am Death_ , and while you may stand apart from me – may attempt to keep me at a distance – I am always amongst you, a part of you; the only certainty that you can count upon. I act without discrimination, though similar ignorant choices drive some of you into my arms sooner than necessary. Know that my embrace is soft; my kiss, forever, and with it suffering ceases.

Some of you may weep and beat your chests, crying out: _WHY?_ against the injustice. 'Why must we suffer this mass destruction every other century, madness striking out across humanity like a dark plague? What is the purpose?' 

The answer lies above us now. Turn your eyes to the sky. Witness, reflected in the gathering clouds, two forces that were not intended to dominate the world. Watch them battle it out. They were once men like many of you, but are now so far from my reach, they are beyond classification. They are fierce in their attacks on each other, their strategies honed after eons of duelling. Neither recall why it is they fight, nor why it is they exist, but I know the answer. In fact, I _was_ the answer. I have always been the answer nobody wants to hear, the choice that is too difficult to make. 

I am telling you now how it began, if only to illustrate the truth: how important it is to not allow a righteous cause to raise one individual above another, above any person's calling. You are mortal and should thank your lucky stars. Even as many of you will embrace me shortly – as the dark and the light clash above us all, equally responsible for the lives they strike – rejoice, for in my arms you will know peace. Be thankful your fate is not the same as the one chosen by _The Boy Who Lived._

*

In ages long passed, a time nearly forgotten, the world was torn in two, split along the lines of those who had magic and those who did not. The ones who had none feared the ones who did, and persecuted them most cruelly. It was an attempt to eradicate what they did not understand. They destroyed the magic altars and sacred spaces, burned the magic bearers' houses to the ground, and with hateful hearts, tied the magic doers to wooden pyres and set them alight, they fed the flames with the written record of magical art. Common folk, fearing what they did not understand, burned their neighbors, the glint of evil in their eyes and spittle flying from their lips as they called out: "Witch!"

Understandably so, the wizardkind retreated from the world as a whole, carving for themselves a new world tucked within the old. One which only those who had magic could enter. And in equal measures of hatred for the epithet put upon them by the common folk, wizards ascribed the commoners with the term 'Muggle' ever after. For many centuries the two worlds coexisted without formally acknowledging each other. To the Muggles, magic became the stuff of legends, diluted in their minds as fiction, and for a long time both communities thrived. 

And then a time came when a shadow fell over the magical community. A Dark power rose up from within their own ranks. He was born by deception and abandoned by both his parents and the community. Wizardkind, in tossing aside an innocent child, created a new nature, one with the capacity to destroy all in its path.The child grew up an orphan, never knowing love and lacking any guidance to direct his magical abilities. He made himself a purpose, one that would break the limits on how much power one wizard could amass. In order to further his cause, he divided wizardkind against itself in order to distill a pure strain of magic. A strain so pure it could overwrite the laws of the universe. His promise to his followers, those whose magic he sought to harvest was that the 'pure-bloods' would be elevated to the level of godhood, though his true intention was only to elevate himself. Under his reign, wizardkind lived in terror, divided even from their acquaintances, never knowing if a friend was a foe in disguise, preparing to hand you over to the Dark Lord for questioning. 

At this time, the new nature sought to balance itself, and a prophecy arose. The birth of a savior who could end the darkness would come to pass. The child would bear the mark of lightning – the very light that can split a dark sky in two and flood it in sheets – but for the the prophecy to succeed, the savior must die. 

Lily and James Potter knew their son was special; he brought light to their lives and to the lives of the people he touched despite the shadow cast from life under the Dark Lord's rule. They raised Harry in Godric's Hollow, and using the very power Harry was born with, hid him and the entire village from the rest of the wizarding world. They were unwilling to reconcile themselves with seeing their son die, and instead defiantly pretended the shadows that could not cross their enchantments did not exist. The only shadowy power that could cross the boundary was Death himself.

Every year, Death visited the Potters and requested that Harry join him, and every year the Potters would put him off. Death would retreat, shaking his head beneath his hooded cloak, and he would resume his duties as the rest of the wizarding world fell into his embrace, starving on the streets, denied the use of their wands. The year Harry reached manhood, Death visited his house once again, but this time, tied to the train of the Dark Lord's robes. 

When the Dark Lord entered the Potter's house – his power grown so great that Death himself had fallen under his rule – he petrified Lily and James with only a glance. His eyes glowed like embers in a fire, as red as freshly-spilled blood. He swept over to the window and turned his gaze upon the whole of Godric's Hollow, and Death, broken and shackled, tried once more to convince Harry to fulfill the prophecy. 

Had Harry been raised to understand his purpose, had he been informed of the very prophecy that shaped his life, he may have escaped his fate. Instead, Harry trembled in his hiding place, a dark cupboard, his body paralyzed with fear by the presence of his mortal foe and not understanding why. 

"You have a choice, Harry Potter," Death said, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves sent shivers tickling like a hundred spiders' legs down Harry's back. "You can free me from my chains by embracing Death and together we will wipe this Dark tyrant from the world, the man who killed your parents and leveled your village." He stopped a moment to wet his cracked lips, the only things visible of his face from under his black hood. Harry used this pause to peer out from the cupboard and verify the tale. 

"But the village still stands; I can see it out the window and my parents are only petrified …"

Death twitched his lips dispassionately before picking up where he'd left off, his hoarse voice rasping. "It wouldn't be much of a choice if it was already too late to alter." 

Harry widened his eyes and hoped for an option that could salvage all he knew. 

"Or you could choose to live. Attack the Dark Lord directly, using the power you were born with and send him out of your house. Understand, that while your parents and village would survive this initial attack upon them, the Dark Lord will also survive. He will nurse his bruised power in hiding and return even stronger than he is now. The two of you will have to battle each other over and over, for time neverending in order to maintain the balance of the world. You, tethered to him in my place, and equally, him to you: _both_ of you beyond my reach." 

Harry had been raised with love and compassion, taught to always protect those he cared for in his village, Muggles and wizardkind alike, for Godric's Hollow was a rare gem where the communities lived together in peace. He tightened his grip on his wand, fear leaving him, courage filling him, fuelled by the spirit of protection. "I will be able hold my own in battle with him, yes?" And when Death confirmed this, Harry made his choice. "I choose to live so my people will live."

Upon uttering these words, a storm broke in the skies above the village, the power reverberating in Harry's bones, touching his magical core, and his power shone brightly within him. The shackles on the Dark Lord's train broke, and Death vanished, snuffed out like a candle flame. Harry harnessed the storm, and before the Dark Lord could so much as turn his head, directed a bolt of lightning to strike him, blasting through the cottage roof, and leaving beneath the rubble, only an inky stain where the Dark Lord had been standing.

The village of Godric's Hollow rejoiced when Harry recounted the tale. Elder wizards of the village revived Lily and James with a Mandrake draught, and Harry turned his talents and enlightenment to grace the rest of the wizarding world. He brought a period of peace never seen before, and was touted a hero for many, many years, even reconciling those who had sided with the Dark Lord to the rest of wizardkind. He married and fathered children, and then saw his grandchildren born while his own parents lived to a ripe old age.

At his mother's deathbed, his father gone before her, he clasped Lily's hand and wiped her tears from her cheeks. "I'm sorry I was so selfish," she cried, shedding even more tears. Her sadness made him uneasy, though he held fast to his role as the one who provides comfort. 

"You have done nothing wrong, mother. Please be at peace."

She shook her head, her anguish distorting her wrinkled beauty. "You have not aged, my son. You are strong and have done so well, brought so much peace to the world of the moment, but I understand now, I made the wrong choice in putting off Death when he came for you. And because I never explained … Harry, I will never see you again after I die." 

Her words sounded to Harry like the babbling of the aged. He'd comforted many elders as their minds failed. He held fast to his mother's hand until her tears brought her sleep. She didn't wake up.

*

The final words of his mother do not make sense to Harry until the day of his wife's funeral as he readies himself to deliver her eulogy.

His eldest son smooths the wrinkles from Harry's robes and Harry frowns at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He sees himself side by side with James Junior. James's hair is flecked with grey, crows feet and smile lines creasing his eyes while his own skin is still as supple and clear as ever, his hair, a shock of untamed black. The only difference in his reflection over the years is the lightning mark on his forehead. Over the years it had faded, much like a scar, but now it stands out dark red and irritated. He had assumed the darkening was from his own bad habit of rubbing his forehead while lost in thought. He rubs it now as his mother's dying words chase around in his mind.

> _You have brought so much peace to the world of the moment, but I understand now, I made the wrong choice putting off death when he came for you._

  


> _The world of the moment_

  


> _Death … came for you._

  


On the tail of the memory, follows the long ago conversation he had come to consider a dream. For how could such an event _really_ happen? 

  


> _The Dark Lord will also survive. He will nurse his bruised power in hiding and return even stronger than he is now. The two of you will have to battle each other over and over, for time neverending in order to maintain the balance of the world. You, tethered to him in my place, and equally, him to you: _both_ of you beyond my reach._

  


Along with the recollection of these words, a similar shiver of dread rises, a hundred tiny spiders scurrying the length of his spine. The sensation sends Harry's mind reeling. The peace he'd bought has reached an end. Outside, another storm brews, its shadow darker and more dense than ever before.

Death _had_ come for Harry, and _had he gone_ with Death then, neither he nor this shadow would hold sway over the world. His parents, out of love, tried to spare him from the realities of the world and in shielding him, taught him to do the same. 

Harry clasps his hand over his heart, the rhythmic beat under his fingers just as strong as it had been on the faraway day he chose to live. He catches sight of his own eyes in the mirror, widening in horror at a new realization. He will always be _The Boy Who Lived_ , and neither Harry nor the Dark Lord will ever be able to die.

As the clouds cover the sun, a chill rising in the air to the point his breath looks like smoke, he grips his wand and shouts to James. 

"Run!"


	4. The Girl and the Golden Chalice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny Weasley knows all about the nature of werewolves, and she will go to any length to protect herself and her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Writcraft. Illustrated by KingJulian.

Ginevra Weasley was a very talented witch. She had six brothers, and because Ginny was the youngest in the family and had such long, red hair, they called her ‘Little Red’, even when she was far too old to want to be called ‘little’ anything anymore. 

Ginny often found herself being left behind while people went off and did exciting things without her. Her brothers, for example, were always doing exciting things. They tamed dragons, broke curses and fought evil on a regular basis. Even her brother, Percy, who wasn’t very adventurous at all, was able to boss people around all day and - sometimes - they’d listen. 

Her brother Bill was her favourite of all, even though she kept that to herself. He was the eldest and he looked after Ginny as if she needed protecting. She often felt he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. His smile faded and his eyes turned sad when he told her about the dangers that awaited her in the outside world. She would sit close to him and curl up by his side when he read to her about dark forests and dangerous beasts.

“One day I’ll be strong enough to fight them myself,” Ginny said.

“You’re already stronger than you think,” Bill replied. He said it quietly, as if it was a secret. When he ruffled Ginny’s hair, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. She felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have a brother like Bill.

People told Ginny that if she was very lucky she might be able to marry a wizard who was just as brave and strong as her brothers, and their name would be known throughout the land. Ginny liked wizards well enough, but marrying somebody who had adventures didn’t seem quite as exciting as having adventures yourself. Ginny would be just as happy with a witch as a wizard, and she found it difficult to get excited about the name on everyone’s lips belonging to somebody else. She would often sit up late into the night and look out of the window of her bedroom to watch the stars. She wondered what it might be like to be in the sky, flying through the clouds and ducking and weaving through the night while the moon would light her path. She dreamed of foreign climes and imagined herself a fearless warrior who would cast brilliant spells to keep the people she loved safe. 

Her mother taught Ginny all kinds of clever magic, in between the daily bustle of running the household. Sometimes, her mother would take Ginny to one side and teach her extra spells. She said that Ginny needed them more than the boys, and always looked worried and impatient when Ginny struggled with the complicated defensive spells. Her family would talk in hushed whispers about a growing danger, but because they saw Ginny as ‘Little Red’, they never let her hear the details. 

But Ginny was a clever witch, and she put together the pieces she'd overheard until she had what she thought was the full story. She'd heard the word _wolf_ mentioned time and again and began to read books about conquering werewolves. Being industrious and brave, she brewed a potion laced with aconite just in case she should encounter anything of that nature. She always carried it with her, whenever she went out by herself. She was quite determined to be independent and learned of ways to protect herself against the monsters her family only talked about when she was nearly out of earshot.

Every Sunday, Ginny would go and visit her grandmother, the small bottle of aconite potion tucked into her pocket. She always took great care to keep to the main path and to avoid the Forbidden Forest.

“Why is it forbidden?” She asked her mother, one particularly bright and warm Sunday. “I think I should like to go through the forest for a change.”

Her mother’s face turned ashen and she clutched Ginny’s hand in hers. “I want you to promise you won’t stray from the path.” Her mother squeezed Ginny’s hand and continued. “It’s no place for young girls. No place at all.”

Because she was a good girl (and because mothers are often right) Ginny heeded her mother’s warning. Despite her obedience however, Ginny was eager to discover what lay behind the trees flanking the path. They stood close together and made walls of brown and bottle green, and reminded Ginny of all of the things getting in the way of her adventures. Taking care not to step off the path, Ginny lingered and peered between the trunks. The woods were lovely and dark, like the sky at night. She thought if she listened very closely she could hear elves and Cornish pixies playing in the branches overhead. The trees whispered to one another on each gust of wind, and they called to her to stray from the path.

 _Come and play_ , the wind said. _We’re lonely here; come and play with us_.

The sun dipped lower and the sky glowed red, until Ginny finally picked up her basket and ran home to her family.

*

One Sunday when Ginny was terribly late for her weekly visit with her grandmother, she decided to go through the forest. The path was much shorter and she had been practicing her spells. She felt no fear, even when the sun dipped behind the trees as she stepped from the path. A gust of wind caused the branches to close behind her, blocking the path from her sight. She cast a _Lumos_ and made her way through the woods as the light from her wand showed the way.

Halfway along, she encountered a man who had strange hair on his hands and his neck. He hid himself from her gaze, bowing as if ashamed. “Hello, Little Red. Where are you going so late in the afternoon? I thought your mother told you to avoid the forest.”

What does this man know of my business? Ginny thought. Who is he to tell me where I should be walking? She pocketed her wand and folded her arms. “Only my brothers call me Little Red. You may call me Ginny.” 

“You should leave this place before night falls.” The man stepped back into the shadows and his words left him in a snarl which made Ginny shiver. “There are bad things in this forest. Go, quickly now. Before I get accustomed to your-”

 _Scent_ , the trees seem to whisper as the man disappeared at a pace.

“What a peculiar encounter.” Ginny retrieved her wand and refused to be deterred. She made her way to her grandmother’s house, stopping only in a clearing where she could look up into the sky and appreciate the glorious light of the full moon.

*

Ginny arrived at her grandmother’s to find the door open. She found the table set with wine and meat, as if someone had been about to sit down to supper but had been interrupted. She helped herself to a glass of the thick, red liquid. It had a strange, almost coppery flavour, but it was deliciously warm and nourishing. She drank her fill and ate a piece of the meat which had been cooked just to her liking - rare and tender.

Despite the cosy fire crackling in the hearth, and the table set for supper, Ginny couldn’t help but notice the table had been set for one. There was no sign her grandmother was up and about at all. A sense of unease settled over Ginny, and she talked out loud in an effort to shake the feeling of being watched.

“Grandmother mustn’t be well. This meat is going to spoil,” Ginny murmured. She raised her voice to call out to her grandmother. “I will bring you some food and wine, grandmother. Would you like anything else?”

“My glasses, my dear.” Truly, her grandmother sounded quite hoarse. “All the better to see how you’ve grown.”

Ginny collected her grandmother’s glasses and took them to her, along with a hot meal. “I am sorry you’re unwell. I do hope this makes you feel better.” Ginny watched her grandmother eat and took her hand, which was bigger than usual and warm.

“How are you feeling, grandmother?”

“All the better for seeing you, Little Red.” 

Grandmother’s voice was deep and rough, her face hidden behind the hood of her night robes. Ginny’s heart pounded in her chest, the same sense of unease increasing by the moment. With steady hands, she poured a glass of wine into her grandmother’s favourite chalice. “I think you should have some of this delicious wine. It might help.”

“What a good girl.” Her grandmother smiled, revealing strange, long teeth. “Why don’t you curl up in bed with me and rest for a while? You must be cold after your long walk.”

“Really grandmother, I am quite warm.” Ginny contemplated the figure on the bed, keeping her expression cool despite her rapidly beating heart. “I gave you a little something for your cold, grandmother. A little potion I brewed with aconite.” 

The growl from the bed sent shivers down Ginny’s spine, and she brandished her wand as the hooded cloak fell to reveal a figure more wolf than man. “What have you done to grandmother?”

The wolf curled on the bed, whining as he coughed blood onto the pristine white sheets. He lashed out as if clawing at the air, and his claws tore into Ginny’s skin. The chalice clattered to the floor, the rich, ruby-red wine spilling onto the wood to mingle with Ginny’s blood. “Forgive me. Forgive me, Ginny. Grandmother was attacked.”

“By a wolf!” Ginny kept her wand pointed in triumph as the wolf began to howl. “I will skin you and take you home for the family to eat once you are dead. You deserve everything you get for killing grandmother.”

“Grandmother was attacked by a wolf.” The face of the imposter shifted from wolf to man and back again, grey fur with flecks of red turning tawny brown. “But not by this wolf, Ginny. Not by _this wolf_.”

“You disturbed grandmother when she was eating supper and you killed her!” Ginny’s hand trembled as the wolf whined on the bed, his agonised pawing at the sheets making her feel as if she had done something horribly wrong.

“That was not grandmother’s food.” The wolf coughed again, sounding more like a man with each laboured breath. “That was for the wolf. Grandmother...grandmother has been dead for some time.”

Ginny’s stomach rolled and a wave of nausea overcame her as she recalled the strange flavour of the thick wine and the tender organs of meat. “Why should I believe anything you say? Werewolves are not to be trusted.”

“Believe me because you know who I am.” The wolf turned, his face flickering from wolf to man, hauntingly familiar. “You must keep safe. Fenrir Greyback will come back, and you're the one he wants most of all." The wolf shuddered and convulsed. "We wanted to protect you. I was so ashamed. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Ginny’s heart clenched as the creature before her turned to man. The face of the wolf - so vile, so repulsive - was replaced by the softness of her brother, Bill. She ran to the wolf - her favourite brother - and clutched onto the remaining fur, burying her face in his warmth. 

“Bill, please tell me what to do. Please!”

“The meat and the wine will make it easier for him to catch your scent.” Bill’s voice left him with a gasp and gurgle as he struggled to inhale. “You must leave this house as quickly as you can. I won’t be able to keep you safe any longer. Remember your training - remember the spells mother taught you when you were younger.”

Ginny sobbed as the last remnants of wolf melted away and Bill took his final breath.

The once warm house filled with the weight of her grief, and the scent of cooked flesh and blood. 

She clung to her brother and her cries were so loud, she barely even registered the sound from deep in the forest, of a wolf, howling at the moon.

With her heart aching and the taste of salty tears fresh on her lips, Ginny left the house and stood underneath the night sky.

She retrieved her wand and held it aloft, the hammering of her heart loud in her ears. The deep gash on her arm made her feel feral and invincible. She could see and smell things more acutely with every heavy breath. She sniffed the air, the scent of darkness and the full moon all around her. She had never known her senses to be so acutely attuned to the evening.

Ginny moved into the forest, her voice rough from the tears she shed for Bill as she let out a soft whine at the thought of her poor, dead brother.

The trees parted and shivered in the wind, and a path through the forest lit up under the pearlescent glow of the full moon.


	5. The Prince and the Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape is shown a glimpse of his future and given the opportunity to win the heart of Lily Evans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Writcraft. Illustrated by KingJulian

The streets of Diagon Alley fill with crowds of witches and wizards shopping for the upcoming holidays. There’s a hum of excitement and the scent of cinnamon buns wafts through the air. Sweet shop candy-floss spins on large wooden sticks and children grab cotton-wool tufts of spun sugar, hands sticky and cheeks flushed from the cool winter air. Almonds are tossed in hot sugar and witches and wizards buy cones full to the brim with piping hot nuts, which spill onto the streets and crunch underfoot. The youngest shoppers bound alongside attentive parents and peer into windows leaving warm marks where their noses press against the glass.

Just a few streets away, the bustling streets give way to a narrow alley. Shadows slide over the damp stone walls, and moss fills the gaps between the bricks. The careless chatter falls away to be replaced by the sound of water dripping onto the stone, and the odd cackle of laughter. Knockturn Alley is just as dark and cold as ever and wizards lurk in the nooks and crannies trying to sell their wares.

Severus feels more at home in Knockturn than he does in Diagon Alley. The brightly coloured clothes and the happy families only remind him of his own failings - an all too depressing reflection of everything he wants, but can’t have.

For Severus there’s only one place that draws him out from the gloom of Knockturn. It’s the same treasured memory he guards jealously, replaying it over and over in his mind: Lily Evans - surrounded by flowers and Slytherin-green grass. He recalls the colour of her hair against his sallow skin - the colour of burnished autumn leaves. He aches with his memories and slinks deeper into the shadows to try to push them to the back of his mind.

Severus ventures into a shop, pushing the door which opens with a creak to display a dark, shadowy space filled with bottles and hundreds of dusty ornaments. 

“Severus.” The shopkeeper looks up from the musty book in his hands. “At last.”

“I’m here to collect my ingredients.” Severus counts out the coins he saved over several months and hands them to the man. “I trust they are ready?”

“Just about.” The man presses closer, his breath stale and rancid. “Fond of Dark magic, aren’t you?”

Severus narrows his eyes and contemplates the man. There is something familiar about him. Something Severus can’t quite place. The room chills and Severus folds his arms, refusing to be intimidated. “That is no business of yours. Do you have my order ready or not?”

The man laughs, the sound sliding along the walls. “Don’t you want to know what else I could offer you? I have access to the oldest magic in the world.”

“At a significant price, no doubt.” Severus waves his hand in dismissal. “I’m not interested in the magic of a charlatan, or foolish incantations.” 

The man busies himself packaging up small jars and bottles, extracting them from the densely packed shelves with ease. “I thought you were a man of ambition, Severus.”

Severus presses his lips together, keeping his voice cold and dangerous as he speaks through gritted teeth. “Is that so?”

“I know everything about you Severus Snape.” The man’s voice take on an elongated _hiss_ as his words snake through the air. He returns from the shelves with several paper bags and his lips curve into a peculiar smile. “It’s all up here.”

The man presses his wand to his temple, and a thin strand emanates from his wand. It shimmers and shines in the dark room, curling and shifting in the light breeze. When the man deposits his memory into a large stone basin, Severus notices that instead of a silvery pool of memories, the liquid is deep burgundy. The memories pulse together, bubbling at the surface. Despite his better judgment, Severus moves closer to the pensieve and looks inside. There’s something fascinating about the way the liquid bubbles and pops, and the thin wisps of smoke rising from the basin are mesmerising.

“What _is_ this?” Severus struggles to keep the note of awe from his voice, his intellectual curiosity piqued. He tentatively touches the side of the basin, which is cool beneath his fingertips. “Those don’t look like ordinary memories.”

“That’s because I’m not showing you my memories.” The man’s voice dips and the sibilant sounds fill the room as the shadows shiver on the walls. “I’m showing you what your future could be. Step in. Take a look around.”

The smoke rising from the surface assault Severus’ nostrils. He inhales, his usual clear head muddied with the scents and shadows of the small shop. Without resistance, he falls forward and plunges into icy waters to find himself back in Diagon Alley.

It’s as if nothing has changed.

The crowds continue to mill past the shops and the scent of sugar and hot chocolate floats towards Severus. It’s intoxicating. _Delicious_.

“Daddy, look!” A small boy runs past Severus, nearly knocking him aside. “It’s a niffler. Oh, please can I have one? Please?” The boy laughs and he reaches out to take Severus’ hand, tugging him along. He’s a tiny, runt of a thing with too-baggy clothes and a beaming smile. He has thick-framed glasses and a pale complexion which contrasts sharply with the ink-black hair which hangs down to his neck. “Can you ask mum?” The boy looks up, his green eyes shining through his spectacles. Severus’ heart somersaults and he squeezes the boy’s hand.

“Where is she?”

“Behind you.”

Severus turns to see Lily. She’s waving and beckoning him closer. Her hair catches in the breeze, framing her face in auburn waves. She’s mouthing something and Severus tries to catch the words as they move through the air towards him. _‘…one with the power…approaches…born as the seventh month dies…power…vanquish the Dark Lord…born as the seventh month dies.’_ Lily’s hand lifts and she points at the boy, her face ashen as she repeats the words again.

Severus moves towards her, keeping a firm hold of the boy. The crowds bustle around him and the vision of Lily flickers and fades. Finally, Severus is almost close enough to touch her. The strange words fade away to nothing, and it’s just Lily. She’s smiling, and happier to see him than she’s been in a long time. She laughs and gives Severus the kind of look she used to, before he became a man she didn’t want to see at all. Her lips form the words _hurry up, love_ and Severus increases his pace.

The boy’s hand is clammy and it slips and slides from Severus’ larger hand.

“Come on…Harry.” The name comes naturally – bursting from Severus as if he knows the boy – as if the boy is actually his own. The small hand leaves his and all he can hear as Lily fades from sight is the sound of a little boy lost and crying out for his father.

 _Where are you? It’s cold, and I can’t find you anymore_.

With a gasp of air which burns through his lungs, Severus finds himself back in the shop. The happy images shatter and Severus swallows around the lump in his throat, the sight of Lily and the sound of the little boy still fresh in his mind. The once bubbling liquid stills, and the ruby-red darkens to thick, black tar. 

Severus pulls his wand and he turns on the shopkeeper with a snarl. His heart clenches and he steadies himself, determined that the man won’t see his foolish heart as it trips wildly out of control.

“This is nothing more than childish trickery!”

“Perhaps.” The man studies Severus, his smile calculating. “But you’re intrigued, are you not?”

Despite himself, the memory of Lily unsettles Severus. He imagines for one blissful moment how it might feel to walk through the streets of Diagon Alley with Lily at his side. He imagines the little boy with jet black hair with his nose pressed against the window as he looks at the toys which dance in dizzying displays. He pictures a life he could have – a life which he once imagined might be within his grasp. 

“You said that was my future.” Severus’ voice is raspy and thin, and he attempts to keep the note of hope and childlike eagerness from his tone.

“I said that could be your future.” The man gives Severus a small, velvet box. “That is for you to decide.”

Severus opens the box and looks inside, his heart pounding in his chest. Nestled against plush velvet is a golden ring, with a ruby in the centre. The stone is the same colour as the extracts from the shopkeeper’s mind, and it has the same lustrous hue and glow whenever a sliver of sunlight catches it.

“What am I to do with this?” Severus brushes his finger over the stone, and the magic pulses through his veins. It gives Severus the dizzying rush of power that comes only with Dark Arts, and he closes the lid abruptly. “Tell me what I must do.”

The shopkeeper smiles. “If you pursue Lily Evans and persuade her to accept this ring, I promise she will not look at anybody else but you.”

With a dizzying sense of excitement, Severus takes the offered box. 

After collecting his potions ingredients, Severus leaves the shop and allows himself a moment’s pleasure while he plans his revenge on James Potter.

*

Severus opens the box when he returns home, and studies the handsome ring. It winks in the sunlight as Severus turns it this way and that.

Despite the heat of his palm, the ring always stays cool. The stone is smooth and hard, and the circumference is just the right size to slip onto his finger. He admires it, half expecting the ring to send the surge of magic through his veins he felt earlier in the day.

When nothing happens, the tension leaves his body. He tuts at himself, and places the ring back in the box.

“You should know better than to trust shopkeeper’s from Knockturn Alley.” His eyes stray back to the box and he tucks it away in his bedside cabinet after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Still, it will make a decent enough gift.”

*

“Lily?”

She meets him in the place they used to go as children. When Severus finds her there, she’s picking flowers and studiously avoiding his gaze.

“Severus.” She pauses, her shoulders tense. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Severus’ voice is tight and clipped. Romancing has never been his strong point. The ring burns a hole in his pocket and he approaches Lily, his hand hovering close to her back in an effort to encourage her to turn around. “I apologise.”

“You do, do you?” Lily turns, fire in her eyes. She puts down the flowers and folds her arms, arching her eyebrow at Severus. “ _Mudblood_? Where does a person hear words like that, I wonder?”

A wave of shame crashes over Severus, and he responds with anger. “I don’t like your friends. They’re idiots. Cruel, stupid idiots.”

Lily huffs. “Well I don’t particularly like your friends, either. At least my friends don’t want you dead.”

“You think they don’t?” Severus speaks so violently, his words escape him in a powerful rush. “You think Black and Potter don’t _enjoy_ my humiliation, I suppose? Black has tried to kill me before, just because he’s a Gryffindor doesn’t mean he isn’t a bully and an arse.”

Lily’s lips twitch, her brows furrowing. “Sirius doesn’t want you dead, for goodness sake.”

Severus looks down at the floor. “I didn’t come here to talk about Black.” He pauses, the softer words infinitely harder than his angry diatribe. “I don’t think of you as a Mudblood.”

“I know, Severus.” Lily’s hand finds her way into Severus’ and her touch sends warmth through his body. “Friends?”

“Friends.” Severus squeezes her hand. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve…missed you too.” Lily’s gaze lingers on Severus and – emboldened by their conversation – Severus edges forwards. 

He prepares himself to be pushed back, to hear Lily’s laughter and rejection. Instead, Lily’s lips are warm and pliant against his own. The kiss doesn’t end with a shout of horror or the beating of fists against his chest. Instead, Lily’s arms circle around Severus’ neck and she kisses him back.

For the first time in his life, Severus is exactly where he wants to be.

*

“I have something for you.”

A long time later, Severus and Lily are stretched out on the grass, looking at the stars.

“You do?” Lily tilts her head to watch Severus curiously.

“A gift.” Severus fumbles for the box in his pocket, extracting the ring and showing it to Lily. “It wasn’t as expensive as it looks.” The lie trips easily off Severus’ tongue. “It’s my mums. She said I could have it, in case I met anyone special.”

“A ring?” Lily’s cheeks heat and her fingers slide over the ruby. “It’s beautiful, but I couldn’t possibly…”

“As my friend.” Severus mumbles his words, his head bowed. “The only friend I’ve got. I don’t mind about anything else.” Severus can sense the hesitation. The spectre of James Potter looms fiercely in Severus’ mind, and he remembers the promise of the powers the ring could hold. His desire to be loved by Lily consumes him, and he nudges the box towards her. “Please.”

“Well…” Lily gives Severus a small smile, and takes the ring. She slides it onto her finger and admires it. “It’s really beautiful, but I can’t – I shouldn’t. It’s your mums. You should keep it for someone special.”

“You are special,” Severus insists. He wraps his hands around Lily’s, to tell her she should keep the ring. 

As their hands connect, Severus feels a sharp tug in his abdomen and the starry woodland copse disappears.

*

“Severus, what’s happening?” Lily pulls out her wand and points it towards a broken huddle of graves. “What is this place?”

“I have no idea. Show yourself.” Severus raises his voice and casts a spell which finds no purchase. 

“You have done well, my boy.” From the shadows, there’s something slithering closer. The voice is a low hiss and there’s an edge of laughter. “I never believed for one moment you would be successful. I was quite sure she would choose someone more…worthy.”

“I don’t understand.” Severus’ hand begins to tremble as he meets Lily’s eyes. The full force of her anger and betrayal is reflected back at him. He sees himself in the sea of green, wretched and afraid. “Lily, I-”

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

The spell slices through the air, and the fierce anger leaves Lily’s eyes. She crumples to the floor and Severus’ heart rips in two. His stomach rolls with nausea and he grabs Lily’s lifeless body, pulling her close to his chest. An animalistic wail escapes him, his _what have you done?_ falling from his lips in a jumble of broken words which catch on his sobs.

The Dark Lord emerges from the shadows, a strange smile on his face. He pushes into Severus’ mind and shivers, his body reverberating with a low sigh of pleasure. It’s as if drinking in Severus’ pain gives him more strength, and he pushes and pulls through Severus’ mind until Severus manages to force his defences up once more.

“What have you done?” Severus repeats, more lucid this time as Lily’s small, broken body rests in his arms.

“You should know better than to trust what you are told by Knockturn Alley shopkeepers.” The Dark Lord tuts, as if displeased. “I received warning of a future alliance which might threaten my rise to power. I have spies who were only too happy to help me ascertain the nature of the threat. All it took was one of the parties involved to unlock the prophecy. So accommodating of you, Severus.”

“We would have supported you!” Severus grips Lily tighter, his voice breaking. “You could have trusted me.”

The Dark Lord smiles, his laughter echoing around the graveyard as the push-pull in Severus’ mind begins again. “No, Severus. You are a pathetic excuse for a man. It was the boy who posed the greatest threat. The _Chosen One_.” The Dark Lord sneers. “But without the woman, there can be no child.”

“How did you know she would accept the ring?” Severus looks into Lily’s eyes, bottle-green and lifeless. The pushing against his mind keeps him from lashing out, his anger and grief raging within him while his hands are motionless, dull weights.

“There is always more than one possible future, Severus. The ring was simply a precaution in the event your advances were successful.” The Dark Lord sighs, the same cruel smile on his face. “In truth, I imagined you would fail. You are not the kind of man I imagine many would choose to love. The ring was a simple Portkey, activated by the touch of your hand and hers. With one touch alone, the Portkey would never have activated and I would not have been called here.”

“You expect me to follow you after this? You swore you would protect us!” Spittle flies from Severus’ lips as the full force of his anger burns through his veins and sets his heart beating faster. He chants _Crucio_ and _Avada Kedavra_ over and over again, but the words refuse to leave his lips.

“Now, now, Severus.” The Dark Lord’s words slide between Severus’ ears with a low hiss. “The ring is not just a Portkey. I wouldn’t leave you alone in the world without your future bride.” The Dark Lord’s laugh is like glass breaking in the still night. With a flick of his hand, Lily’s Muggle clothes become off-white satin and lace. “She will never become dust, Severus. Not like the wasted witches and wizards, rotting beneath your feet. I have given you that. I have given you an eternity with her.” The Dark Lord’s hand rests on Severus’ bowed head, the touch sending pain shooting through Severus’ brain. “What do you say, Severus?”

With every bone in his body, Severus fights against the words that spill, unbidden, from his lips.

“ _Thank you_ , my Lord.”

*

She’s beautiful when she sleeps.

Her skin is pale and soft, and her glass box is the perfect resting place.

  
  


I wonder when she’ll wake up?

Sometimes, I imagine we’ll be together again. I hear her voice in the whispers of the early dusk and her laughter on the autumn breeze. I feel the warmth of her kisses before sunset and wake to the scent of her skin as the day begins anew.

Something that didn’t existed can’t become a ghost, but he has. He sits by my side as I watch over his mother and puts his hand in mine. 

“Don’t be sad, daddy.” The boy leans into my arms and squeezes my hand tightly. “There’s no need to cry.”

They are my life. They are the only warm things in this small, wretched space.

They are mine: Lily, and the Boy Who Could Have Lived.


	6. The Secret Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unsatisfied with "When you're older" in answer to his questions about his inherited abilities, Teddy seeks the truth by studying family heirlooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Mab. Illustrated by KingJulian

*

A tear splashes off the glass-fronted photograph, Teddy's grief reflecting back at him. It overshadows his parents' embrace – a moment captured in time – a memory nobody can deny him.

"That's Mum," he says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "On the day Dad asked her to marry him. See how happy they were, how normal? They look right together." He doesn't wait for a response. " _They'd_ have told me everything. I know it."

More tears spill down his cheeks. He traces his mother's face with his fingertip, smudging the glass. 

"She looks like me. She _was_ like me." He falls silent for a moment, droplets quivering on his lashes with each slow blink, his face drawn in thought. "How many _have_ there been? Metamorphmagi, I mean. Gran won't say. She only said it's a rare gift and tends to run in families, but she won't talk about the time before she got married."

I trace my response slowly, frustratingly so.

> **R U N N I N G - D R Y**

  


"Oh yeah, sorry. I forgot."

He pulls a silver dagger from his pocket, smirking proudly at the crisp diary pages we use to communicate. 

"I found this. It was in the old trunk in Gran's den, just like you said it would be. I was careful before taking it. Did the dusting as a favor and had her approve my work so she wouldn't notice the trunk had been opened."

> **. . .**

  


He chuckles and wipes his brow with his sleeve. 

"Right. Sorry. Don't mean to talk your ear off."

He quietens and holds his left hand over the blank pages. His brow furrows as he shifts his skin, revealing the scattered scars in various stages of healing. The foolish child had been using an old bronze blade until he complained about the pain. Silver, the metal of sacrifice and purity is what he ought to be using. The cuts will heal without scarring when he masters the incantation. Hissing inwardly, he sucks in his breath and then, there is only blood.

The pages drink it in like a sieve as Teddy's heartbeat roars. He is strong.

"C-can I st-stop now?" 

His voice is not strong.

The pages breathe, soaking the infusion of life into their long dry leaves, and I count silently to ten before spelling my response out in slow, languid letters, treasuring every second of life he offers up.

> **Y E S. That will do.**

  


I give him his moment of privacy when he turns away. He hums the incantation more effectively this time than most wand users. I can respect him for not wanting to show weakness after bestowing such a gift. He's well-versed at covering his tracks; were it not for the taint of his Muggle namesake, he would fit the mold of his forbears. We have talked before of the power of Blood Magic, of ancestry. He takes my correspondence as a comfort – that only his blood bears the code to unlock the secrets of the family record – that his blood called me to him. That Andromeda failed to meet this need is the comfort _I_ hold dear. 

I have a message waiting for him when he returns.

> **A silver blade of this calibre requires a sheath. One that can be worn at all times and concealed from those who do not understand the power or the cost of truth.**

  


He nods as he takes his seat, swooning against the sofa back and balancing the bound pages on trembling knees. 

"How many?" he asks, his voice weary but insistent. "Who were they? Tell me all that you can."

I print message after message onto the pages as Teddy thumbs through the old family albums. They had been harder to recover – concealed by many charms – but with my instruction and Teddy's birthright, he managed it. He follows along with my lessons in our lineage, never once losing focus. These are all very good signs.

~*~ Teddy ~*~ 

"Teddy?"

My heart races at the sound of my name, my eyes flying open. Gran's back. 

But it's okay. I'm in bed, and the albums … I must have put them away before falling asleep. 

"Yeah?" I rasp, then clear my throat and try my voice again. "I'm here."

The door swings open as I fall back against my pillow, too tired to prop myself up. 

"Oh, sweetheart." Gran sets the basket of my folded laundry down and sits beside me on the bed, her hand cool and dry against my forehead. She tsks. "Touch of fever. Sore throat?"

I nod. 

She frowns, the crease between her eyes growing deeper. 

"I'm worried, Teddy. The past fortnight you've seemed a little under the weather."

"I'm fine," I say, pushing myself to sound stronger and more petulant than I am. "I need some sleep and then I'll be good."

She ruffles my hair, her face relaxing into a smile. "Of that I have no doubt. I want you to rest up the next few days. Let me feed you my special chicken soup and baby you a touch. We'll have you right as rain in no time. Deal?"

I smile at her. "Deal."

Her lips tremble as she drops her hand from my face. She finds her handkerchief and dabs at the corners of her eyes. I raise an eyebrow. 

"You look so much like your mum. I wish she were here to see you off to Hogwarts. Not quite two weeks left before you go. Time flies fast. Before I know it, you'll be a man and raising children of your own."

I don't respond right away, my mind lingering on my mum. I dreamed I heard her voice. I recognise the sound, the feel of the vibrations in her vocal chords. She doesn't feel as far away as she had in the past. The more answers I uncover, the closer to her I get. 

"Tell me about mum again?"

Gran meets my gaze, her chin quivering as usual when I ask, but I don't back down and tell her to not worry about it. Not this time. I think she can tell I need to hear the truth, that I'm ready for the answers she always put off before.

"Tell me something about her I don't know already."

I'm being impulsive which normally doesn't work with Gran, but she's always more clingy and willing to open up when I'm sick. Usually she waves my questions off, telling me to wait till I'm older. This time she takes a deep breath and settles in, breathing out as if resigning herself to the conversation. 

"Your mum was a real chameleon, you know that? I mean, you take after her in the physical aspect – being a Metamorphmagus. But she could blend in with any crowd; all she needed was the desire to do it. She was a rebel too, but you'd never guess that when she played up her Hufflepuff status. She'd use that to her advantage, more cunning than most Slytherins, but the sweetest nature you ever saw in a person. There was one time it got her into a real spot of danger. Honestly, I wouldn't have ever known about it if Kingsley hadn't accidentally confessed it to me. I think he needed someone to confide in about it, too. It's a hard pill to swallow."

She gazes out the window, her fingers playing with one of the knots in my quilt. This is more information than Gran has ever volunteered. I don't want to jinx it by speaking. 

"I know you've been after me for years and years to answer your questions and I haven't been ready to talk about the past with you. But with you off to Hogwarts and growing up, I do think it's time to start whether I'm ready or not."

"Was it bad?" I whisper, unable to hold the question inside. It isn't that I'm scared of hearing the answer, more that I'm afraid she'll change her mind about answering. 

She shakes her head. "Not bad on her part, Ted. She was doing her job. I've told you before that she worked as an auror. One of the best in the department at concealment and disguise. She wasn't the best at stealth and tracking though, and it almost got her killed on this occasion. There was a lot of bad in the world for a very long time, especially when Nymphadora was a wee thing. Then Harry came along and the bad wizard, the one who led it all, went quiet. We all thought he might be gone for good, but it turns out that the darkness kept growing behind the scenes.

"Your mum got into a real bad scrape while she was infiltrating a meeting of the Dark Lord's supporters. She'd been disguised as one of them, only the aurors didn't realise this particular person was marked as disposable to his own side."

I hold my breath, afraid she'll stop if I make a sound. 

"She underwent a powerful transformation. I think it took more out of her than she ever let on. As they attacked her, disguised as their comrade, she transferred her consciousness into something else, an inanimate object. I still don't understand how it was possible, but because she did that, her metamorph nature saved her life. When they turned away, she switched back, transfigured the object into a replica of the body she'd impersonated and her own body back into the object, all without them realising. They ended the torture when the replica wasn't moving, threw a Killing Curse at it and all. But then the aurors burst onto the scene and apprehended the lot of them. Your mum was able to change back and explain everything to Kingsley. She seemed a little out of sorts for a time, but I would never have guessed why. I didn't learn of it until a couple of years after the fact. 

"I'm not telling you these things to scare you, Ted. But I need you to understand that your gift is rare and potentially dangerous. People may try to manipulate you were they to learn of the extent of your power. It must be a secret you guard like nothing you ever have before."

 _An inanimate object?_ My mind reels. I'm afraid I'll pass out from holding my breath too long. _A book is an inanimate object. What if?_ I shake my thoughts off. I'll think them over later. I don't want to raise Gran's hopes for nothing. 

I scramble for something else to say, something to encourage her to tell me more and distract her from where my mind is going. 

"But, Gran. A lot of people know about it already. The Potters, the Weasleys …"

She shakes her head. "That you are a Metamorphmagus isn't what I mean for you to guard, Teddy. It's the _extent_ of what you can do with your powers that must be kept secret. Let them think you are limited to being able to alter your physical appearance, like changing one type of nose to another, or your hair color from blond to blue. Party trick material is what we want them to know. But see … had the Death Eaters known …" She pauses, then continues, her voice sounding as if she's forcing herself to be calm. "They would have hunted her early on, made her death look like an accident, or worse, they may have taken her prisoner and 'studied' her abilities under torture. Because they didn't know, we gained valuable inside information. On our side, only Albus Dumbledore was privy to the truth … and then Remus."

"Why do you say his name like that?"

She straightens her posture, then smooths the wrinkles in her skirt. "Like what?"

"Like you don't like him. Like he's not what you wanted for Mum."

She looks older all at once at the question, more sad. It seems that she's more disappointed in herself than in my father, though. I'm not sure how I'm reading that, but I've been picking up a lot of new skills lately. I still have a lot left to learn. 

"Teddy. I want you to know right now – no matter what I may have held in my heart in the past, the prejudices, the worries I had that he might make life harder for your mum – your father was a hero and stronger than I could ever hope to understand. He was more worthy of Nymphadora's love than any other man could have been. Nymphadora saw his worth despite what anybody else said, and you are the perfect person they made together. _You_ are my family, _our_ family's future. I don't have the energy to explain myself right now, but I will. I promise." 

She caresses the side of my face, her cheeks wrinkled and her eyes weary with the toll our talk has taken on her. 

"I need to put the soup on, love, and then I'd like you to rest up until it's ready. That all right?"

I give her a smile as she kisses my cheek, and then wait until the door closes behind her before moving. The new questions renew my strength, fueling my need to know, to find out for sure …

* 

Blood – a fresh batch. Family blood. Pure as it filters through the fibres of parchment.

A feeble voice, sounding far off. "I'm cold."

> **T E D D Y?**

  


This time I feel the parchment beneath the pad of my finger as I spell his name. So close now. 

"Mum?" **Is that you?**

Sighing, I can _feel_ my heart beating. The pulse in my finger throbs with each pump. I trace his words, red against the white, and then I run my entire palm over the page, a gentle caress. 

"Hush now, my love. Sleep and I will tell you everything when you wake."

> **Thank you.**

  


One letter at a time – Sleep-leaden speed. 

> **L O V E - Y O U**

  


I close the cover on our precious conversation, and then cross the room to the hearth. 

*

"Teddy, I have your soup," she says as she pushes the door open, balancing a tray in her arms like a common Muggle. She worries her brow as she sets the soup on the beside table. "Are you so cold you need a fire in August?"

I pick up my spoon and smile at her. "I was, but I think I'm finally on the mend."


	7. The Tale of Two Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father gave Regulus a locket for his thirteenth birthday and just like that, everything changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Writcraft. Illustrated by KingJulian

When he was younger, Regulus used to come into my room in the middle of the night. He’d bring chocolate frogs and tall glasses of ice cold milk. He’d sit on my bed and talk about Quidditch and homework.

“Can’t sleep?” I’d say, indulging him.

“Don’t want to.”

He wouldn’t ever admit to it. Being scared, I mean. He pretended he just wanted to have midnight feasts and talk about something other than his dreams.

The only time he confessed was the night before he died.

He curled up in my bed and rested his head on my chest.

“Sirius?” His voice a low murmur, heavy with sleep.

“Yeah?” My hand sliding through his hair, my arms keeping him close.

“I’m afraid of the dark.”

A whisper, and the last thing Regulus said out loud.

*

Father gave Regulus the locket on his thirteenth birthday.

It was silver and gold, with an emerald serpent in the middle. 

Reg put it around his neck and tucked it into his robes.

“Thank you, father.” He said.

And just like that, everything changed.

*

“Have you ever heard them sing?”

“Who?” 

“Merpeople.” Reg fingered the locket around his neck, his face taking on a dreamy sort of look. “It’s beautiful. Haunting, but beautiful.”

“I’ve never heard them before.” I paused, frowning. “Wait, there are merpeople in that lake?”

“The one just behind the house, yes.” Regulus beamed. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

He left before I could reply.

*

Regulus wasn’t around much after that.

He spent most of his time by the lake, peering into the water. I followed him once, and heard him talking to something faceless beneath the water’s surface.

“I can’t just leave. My family need me.” He swayed in place until I thought he would topple into the lake.

“Who are you talking to?”

The swaying stopped and Regulus didn’t move. He tucked the locket back into his robes and turned on me, letting out a peculiar snarl of anger.

“You’re spying on me!” He pushed me in the chest, hard. “Piss off, Sirius. This is mine, not yours. Just go.”

“I’m not spying.” I shook Regulus, hoping he’d see sense. “You’re never around anymore. Whatever’s in that lake isn’t good for you - show me.” I pushed past him and stared at the water, while Regulus muttered about me sticking my nose into places it didn’t belong.

“Just because you’re older, that doesn’t mean you have to protect me all of the time. You can’t always save people, you know.”

He was right.

*

He came home late one night, shivering. His robes clung to his body and his face was ash grey. His hair had grown longer and looked almost wild, blue and green streaks against the black, like the colour of oil.

His lips looked plump, full and damp and he had water dripping from his chin.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” I knew of course, but I wanted to hear him say it.

“For a swim. I think...I think I got some of the water in my mouth.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand and shivered. “I need to go to bed.”

“Regulus, wait.” I reached out for him, but he shook me off. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He just smiled, a queer smile. “I don’t think I like them anymore.”

That was the night he told me he was afraid of the dark.

*

They found him floating face down on the water.

His arms were spread wide, his body like an awkward star.

They said he died of natural causes and gave me the locket as if I need trinkets and heirlooms to remember the way Reg’s smile was the brightest one I’d ever seen.

When they took his body away, I put the locket around my neck and wept for him.

That night, I woke to the sound of singing.


	8. The Serpent and the Castle Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from a Ministry official brings Poppy some unexpected problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Writcraft. Illustrated by KingJulian

Although she had witnessed more battles than most, Poppy Pomfrey never became accustomed to watching people die. The kind of death Poppy saw was rarely the natural end to a long and happy life. For the entirety of her career, Poppy had worked with children. There was always something futile - something preventable - about the deaths she witnessed. 

Poppy had lived through two wizarding wars, and she had lost countless children to the ravages of war. Children want to be brave, you see, and when battle comes it makes soldiers of them all. When the fight came to Hogwarts during the Second Wizarding War, Poppy used all of her magical prowess and tremendous courage to keep the infirmary safe from attack. She warded the doors and working frantically on preparing potions of all descriptions to administer to those most in need. She worked until her hands were chapped and dry, and her body slick with perspiration while spells flew around Hogwarts castle and swept past the turrets. They coloured the sky with burned reds and greens until one couldn’t tell the difference between spell and star. 

When the war was over, Poppy ventured onto the fields of battle. She walked the full length of Hogwarts grounds to administer her potions to the injured and dying. She cast _Lumos_ and held hands as students and Death Eaters alike crossed to the other side. Finally, she went to the Great Hall and surveyed the rows of the dead. She watched the light leave the eyes of some of her dearest friends, and witnessed young soldiers turn to women and men before her very eyes. They stood in tearful remembrance of the events they had witnessed and the spells they had found themselves capable of casting in the midst of battle.

Minerva McGonagall was a great source of comfort to Poppy in the aftermath of the war. “Truly, you are something. A remarkable woman.”

“I have been fortunate enough to have dear friends to keep me on the straight and narrow.” Poppy tipped her drink at Minerva and smiled around her glass. “So to speak.”

Minerva laughed and gave Poppy a fond look that made Poppy feel warm from her toes to her fingertips. “Indeed.”

They spent many an evening, long after classes had finished, sitting together and talking about their past, present and future. When Minerva settled for the night, Poppy would always go and spend an additional hour before bed watching the children in the infirmary sleep, and tending to their needs as they woke late into the night. She would return to Minerva shortly before the first grey light of early dawn, and would slide into bed next to Minerva. They would hold one another until the sun came up, and the ghosts that haunted Poppy’s dreams would become less quarrelsome and demanding of her time.

Keeping herself occupied was important, and Poppy refused to allow herself to dwell on her thoughts for too long.

*

Poppy found the Ministry a source of endless frustration, as she battled to obtain sufficient funding to enable her to keep the infirmary well-stocked. In a school such as Hogwarts, one couldn’t be too careful. Professor Longbottom’s arrival to assist Pomona was welcome indeed and Poppy found she soon had a steady supply of rare plants and herbs. The trickier ingredients were more problematic.

“We’ll see if Kingsley can’t speed the process up,” Minerva promised, after Poppy had been waiting for months for a fresh supply of newts’ eyes. “If not, I’m sure I can pull a few strings.”

So frustrating had the whole process been, it was a welcome surprise when a new Ministry official arrived out of the blue and informed Poppy he had been appointed solely to deal with the distribution of ingredients for medicines to Hogwarts and St Mungo’s.

“I’m keen to source the ingredients far and wide, eventually.” The boy was young and fresh faced and his cheeks had a pleasing glow. Poppy liked him instantly.

“How on earth do you obtain these items?” Poppy fingered a small phial of unicorn blood, which shimmered in the sunlight.

“Unicorns die, eventually. The Ministry is allowed to use the blood when the animals have been killed by natural causes.” The boy smiled brightly, his teeth white and straight. “But I’ve got something even better than that.” The man offered a wriggling bag to Poppy. “Have a look.”

“What on earth could be better than unicorn blood?” Poppy wondered. She carefully opened the bag to see a bright green snake winding into a coil at the bottom of the sack. It was like nothing she had ever seen before. “Is one supposed to extract the venom?”

“This snake isn’t poisonous.” The boy placed down a roll of parchment which he unravelled carefully. “The most important property is the snake’s skin. You’re to keep it alive, and when it sheds its skin you should grind it into dust.”

“Curious.” Poppy ran her fingers over the skin on the unfurled parchment. “What kind of potion requires finely ground snake skin?”

The boy laughed and the sound warmed the room. “Something very pedestrian, I’m afraid. It’s used in the standard remedy for the common cold.”

“To what end?” Poppy looked up in surprise. “It seems most peculiar to be reliant on such a rare ingredient for such an easy remedy.”

“You’ll be thanking me for it come autumn.” The boy winked. “It halves the recovery time.” 

“How fascinating…” Poppy had been feeling under the weather for a couple of days and she was eager to put her new ingredients to good use. 

“I’ll see you next month.”

The boy left, whistling as he went. 

If Poppy had been minded to look out of the window at just the right moment, she would have seen the boy turn and look back up at the castle. She would have seen his features flicker and twist. She would have noticed the very strange smile which had taken up residence on his face and she would have observed his bright skin turn pale and sickly. She would have seen the solid body fade to near translucency as he neared the gates of Hogwarts.

Had Poppy contacted the Ministry to thank them for the unexpected addition to her stores, they would have insisted they knew nothing of the boy and his wares. They would have advised her to send the ingredients to them right away, in order to ensure everything was above board. They would have recommended she refrain from using any of the items in her potions until they had verified their authenticity.

Instead, Poppy did none of those things. Because Poppy placed the health of those in her care at the top of her priority list, no sooner had the door closed behind the boy from the Ministry than she had settled the snake in its new home and begun to grind the first piece of skin into dust. She would test the potion herself, at first. Poppy would not administer any medicine to children that she herself hadn’t tested at one juncture or another.

*

“You seem very poorly indeed.” Minerva’s cool hand settled on Poppy’s forehead, bringing with it some much needed relief. “Are you quite sure this new potion is working?”

“Don’t fuss, Min - it’s only the flu. I expect my temperature to come down tomorrow.” Poppy’s head felt thick and groggy as the image of Minerva - lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed - swam before her face. “Please pass me my potion?”

“Here.” Minerva uncorked the bottle and took a sniff, before gently placing it to Poppy’s lips and allowing her to take a number of small, careful sips. “Enough?”

“Yes.” Poppy sighed, and fell back against the pillows. Minerva’s voice shifted around her, turning into several different voices, each one saying her name.

_Poppy. Poppy, please help us. We need you, Poppy._

She shook her head a little and the urgent voices faded.

With a sigh, Poppy closed her eyes and allowed sleep to claim her.

*

Unlike the boy promised, Poppy’s flu grew worse until she had a high fever and even the usual potions didn’t help. Minerva fussed and worried, muttering about the Ministry and their new initiatives.

“I’m afraid the situation is graver than we thought.” Min wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and she wouldn’t hold back any uncomfortable truths from Poppy. She took Poppy’s hand, her voice clipped and furious. “That _boy_ has nothing whatsoever to do with the Ministry. I have ordered that the Aurors investigate at once.”

“The snake?” Poppy squeezed Minverva’s hand, trying not to let her worry show. “It’s related to the snake.”

But later that day when the Ministry officials came to search the infirmary, the snake was nowhere to be seen.

*

Late one Friday evening, when Poppy got up to pour herself some water, she sawRemus Lupin and Sirius Black. They were right there - next to her own reflection - in the window of Minerva’s study. They clung together and kissed as if they never wanted to let one another go.

Poppy fought back a wave of emotion. They looked just like children again - young boys who had barely aged from the reckless sixteen year olds they had once been. Their uniforms were scruffy and crumpled, and their ties undone and loose around their necks.

“I’ve been looking for you for ages, Moony.”

“I’ve not been here as long as you.” Remus smiled. His whole face lit up and his pale cheeks took on the lightest flush. He kissed Sirius again and the intensity was such that Poppy averted her eyes, bowing her head. “I’d have gone to hell and back to find you, Padfoot.” 

“Are you ghosts?” Poppy spoke quietly, her hand hovering by the window. She didn’t dare to touch the glass in case the boys disappeared. They separated, and Sirius gave her a smile which didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hullo, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Sirius Black.” Poppy touched the pane of glass at last, keeping the ghosts of Sirius and Remus behind her. “Why can I see you?”

“I tried to stop it. I’d have done anything I could.” Sirius growled, sounding strangely feral. “I’ll look for him, but I don’t think he’s in the same place as us. He’s one of those. One of the Faint Ones.”

Poppy swallowed and she met their eyes. “The Faint Ones?”

Remus shivered as if the word made him cold. “They’re here but they’re not. You don’t see them but they’re-”

“Everywhere. Ssh!” Sirius put his finger to his lips, his expression fierce and urgent. His eyes flashed as his image flickered and faded. “They’re-”

“Come along, Poppy. What on earth are you doing out here in the cold? You’ll catch your death.”

Poppy turned to look at Minerva, and found nothing behind her but an empty room.

*

Sirius and Remus were the first, but they weren’t the last. Between bouts of delirium and restlessness, Poppy saw them all.

Fred Weasley was next. “How’s George?” He said, perching on the edge of her bed. “Do you think he’s going to come soon? It’s lonely here without him.”

Poppy offered him reassurance as best she could. Her head pounded, and the look on Fred’s face made her throat tighten and tears stung the back of her eyes. “They’re all just children,” she said to Minerva one night before bed. “They’re not at peace. They’re all lost, looking to find one another. They’re still trying to battle things that frighten them.”

Minerva looked worried and began to turn to the books - large dusty volumes from the Restricted Section. On occasion, Poppy returned to their rooms to see pages from the books flung around the room. There was no sign of Minerva, and despite the fact no windows were open, a gust of breeze lifted Poppy’s hair and danced around her cheeks.

_We need you, Poppy. We’re lonely. We just want to talk to you._

Some nights, Poppy woke up crying. Her eyes were sore and puffy, and her throat pained her from shouting out to the voices in the darkness.

They’re so lonely.

They’re so scared.

*

“The Faint Ones.” Poppy confronted Albus’ portrait when the voices became enough to make her head spin. She couldn’t see or hear anything anymore without the sound of someone crying echoing through her mind, and making her heart clench. The children at Hogwarts mingled with the dead, who perched on the stairs and moved through the corridors, watching the other children and trying to join in their games. “Who are they?”

“Just imprints on time. Echoes. Neither dead, nor undead.” Albus removed his glasses and he looked carefully at Poppy. “Can’t you sense them?”

“No.” Poppy clutched her hands by her sides and shook her finger furiously at Albus. “I need a clear response, not riddles and supposition.”

“And I am giving you one.” Albus leaned forward. “ _Listen_.”

Almost shaking with anger and fear, Poppy closed her eyes. The temperature in the room dipped. She could hear laughter, and when she focused properly she could hear a group of voices more clearly than the clamour of the others.

_Help us. Please, Madam Pomfrey. Please help us._

Poppy kept her eyes closed and she held out her hand. Her fingers trembled and tendrils of cool air clutched and grasped at her fingers, sliding through her flesh and bones and chilling her to the core.

“Why are the dead frightened of you?”

_Because we’re not anything. They’re scared they’ll become us. Just a faded memory._

“They would rather be dead?” Poppy stretched out her fingertips, the air moving all around her, clinging to every part of her being.

_People remember the dead. Nobody remembers us. Please don’t go. It hurts here. It hurts so much._

“If you’re not ghosts then what are you?” Poppy swallowed, her throat working. “What _are_ you?”

_Lost and forgotten_

The voices faded away, and when Poppy opened her eyes again the room was warm.

*

In a matter of days the fever dissipated.

Poppy and Minerva celebrated with too much sherry and an evening of laughter and slow, languorous kisses. Poppy smiled at Minerva and ran her fingers over her cheek.

“You’re so good to me. I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have you in my life.”

“I’m the one who has had all the good fortune.” Minerva kissed Poppy and held her close. “Must you go to the infirmary this evening?”

“I’m afraid so.” Poppy’s voice was firm. “They’re just children with nowhere to go. They will be frightened without me.”

“Very well.” Minerva settled back into the bed. 

The parchment in Poppy’s uniform pressed against her breast, and with a final kiss she closed the door on Minerva and made her way to the infirmary.

*

When the papers report of Poppy Pomfrey’s death, they skirt around the issue of suicide.

Instead, they talk of a tragic accident. They talk of potions mixed incorrectly, and recent attempts on Poppy’s life.

Minerva McGonagall knows better.

She knows her Poppy wouldn’t mix even a drop of her remedies incorrectly.

She knows with aching certainty that Poppy’s final kiss was _goodbye_.

Min also knows about the piece of parchment that nobody else found. She knows that Poppy would rather die than witness somebody’s suffering without being able to help. She runs her fingers over the dusty pages from an old Ministry text, discovered too late.

_The Faint Ones_

Minerva takes her time and explains everything to Wilhelmina. Wil nods, taking in everything Minerva tells her without question.

“You’re quite sure, Min? There will be no going back.”

“Yes, quite sure.” Minerva keeps her voice as no-nonsense as possible. “I want you to erase all memory of her. I have taken care of the others.”

“But all of her work-”

“It’s what she wants,” Minerva snaps. She pauses and then squeezes Wilhelmina’s hand. “I’m sorry. This is difficult for me.”

“I quite understand.” Wil gives Minerva a crooked smile. “No more questions.”

Minerva steals one final look at the parchment which she had found crumpled in Poppy’s robes.

_I have to help them. I hope you understand._

_My final wish is not to be remembered. I have lived a wonderful, rich life and I wish to die doing what I’ve always loved best. Albus will be able to tell you where I am._

_Know that you were the only reason I had to stay alive._

_Please, my heart. Forgive me and forget me._

_I must become nothing more than an imprint on time._

_Yours in devotion,_

_Poppy._

The _Obliviate_ is cast and when Minerva looks back at the parchment, she no longer remembers the name.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment here, on [livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/124140.html), or in both places.


End file.
